


Coq Au Vin

by CollectorOfWonder



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollectorOfWonder/pseuds/CollectorOfWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small interlude in the French Alps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coq Au Vin

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt requested by a lovely Tumblr user. Just a little dollop of a story. :)
> 
> The prompt was "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

It had been an age since she’d laughed so much and so freely, but that was Reddington for you. What was it he had told her? Find the peace beneath the winds? Something like that; vague and unhelpful fortune-cookie wisdom that made no sense until it finally did. 

This wasn’t a celebration, and they weren’t particularly safe or really that much closer to their goal. Yet something had shifted between them, a relaxing of barriers. There had been so many bad days, so many close calls, and that last one…it had washed over her with cold-water clarity that despite everything that lay unresolved between them like forgotten landmines, she could not– _would not_ –lose this infuriating, compelling human being at her side.

The gash below his ear was barely visible above his buttoned collar, one angry pink edge peeking out. The cut on the side of his head was more so, especially as he’d refused to wear his hat indoors to cover it.  _I am not farmer, Elizabeth. There are some boundaries that simply cannot be crossed: hats off indoors, always hold doors open for people behind you, and suspenders should never be seen. They’re underwear. ‘Under’ is right in the name._

She sat now, laughing over a second glass of Côtes du Rhône as Red told some completely outrageous and risqué tale of a film festival in Greece. Their companions were a handsome couple who owned a little restaurant in the Alps; old acquaintances of Red’s who let him use one of the ski lodges out of peak season whenever he needed. Apparently Red had saved Jean-Paul’s life in the Congo back the late 90s.  _That_  story was glossed over, but the Grecian misadventure was happily being told in colorful detail.

Jean-Paul stood to dish up and serve the main course, and Melissa, his lovely Canadian wife, watched him go fondly. She did, however, push Red’s shoulder with the same playful fondness at the end of his story, giving him a saucy smile as she slid out of her chair to assist Jean-Paul. Red’s eyes followed Melissa appreciatively for half a moment before he cleared his throat and reached for the wine. 

Good Lord, she wondered, when was the last time either of them had any sort of intimacy with another human being? She knocked back the last of her wine in an effort to direct her thoughts down literally any other possible path. It was difficult, however. He simply exuded that refined masculine charm, whether he intended to or not. She was certainly no less susceptible to it than the next person.

Liz found herself acutely, uncomfortably aware of the hypnotic rustle of silk lining on wool as Red reached out and replaced the wine bottle in the middle of the table. Her eyes locked onto his hands as they released the neck of the bottle and then caressed the edge of his wine glass before cupping it carefully. She could hear his breath, smell that mixture of cleanliness and masculine scent–bay rum, maybe, with that clove undertone that made her think of gingerbread and firesides. This was not the first time Raymond Reddington had held her senses in powerful sway, but it was the first time that she wondered, really, why she cared so much if he did. He was a handsome, distinguished, and charming gentleman, for this evening at least. Why not enjoy it?

She offered him a genuine smile of pleasure as he turned to face her, and she noted that his expression softened and his posture relaxed. He gave her a half-smile. “I do hope the story wasn’t too off-color for you.”

Her smile widened. “Other than the fact that you could have given most of my Spring Break tales a run for their money, I have no objections to your off-color tales, Red.”

“And what were your Spring Break tales, Lizzy?”

“Well,” she answered, pretending to consider, “there was the year I spent cataloguing all the books in Aunt June’s charity bookmobile.”

He dignified that with only a look, a half-smirk and slow blink. She couldn’t stop the giggles and he shook his head. “All right, I will admit to a few drunken revels in New Orleans and later in Mexico, but really, nothing too shocking. Some one-night stands, a few ill-advised bead collections. Nothing that would land me on one of those video collections with Snoop Dog.”

He did chuckle at that. “Probably for the best.” Jean-Paul poked his head out of the kitchen door and begged their patience for a few more minutes while he hunted down the perfect bottle of wine to accompany dinner. Liz glanced at the only half-empty Côtes du Rhônes and realized she ought to slow down a little. 

“Jean-Paul makes the most divine coq au vin,” Red told her, tilting his head to the side. In doing so, he bridged the small amount of distance between their seats, and Liz could have laid her head on his shoulder, if she wished. The sound of his breathing in her ear already had her on edge. “You’re in for a rare treat. They won’t put it on the menu, as Jean-Paul trusts no one but himself with the recipe, and he claims it takes far too long to ever be a practical restaurant dish. There’s simply something about it that I can’t put my finger on…”

“The mushrooms,” she supplied. “They’re morels.” Her lip curled upward when he slowly inclined his head the opposite direction and stared at her. “He let me taste it, earlier.”

“He let you taste it.”

“Earlier,” she confirmed, “when we were in the kitchen.”

“He let you taste his coq au vin,” Red repeated flatly in disbelief.

Liz blinked and stifled a very inappropriate snort. “Yes, though, when you put it like that…”

“He  _never_  lets anyone taste his cooking before its ready,” Red complained. “I once waited three and a half hours for a pot of peanut and chicken stew in the middle of the jungle because he said it wasn’t ready yet. In the middle of the jungle, Lizzy, when we hadn’t eaten more than a handful of nuts in nearly two days.” He leveled a look at her. “Three and a half hours!”

“Wait a minute,” she said, pausing to set down her wine glass. “Are you jealous?”

“I consider jealousy-”

“-a base emotion, yes, you’ve said. But that was pertaining to people,” she pointed out, fighting a grin and failing. “Red, you’re jealous of my tongue.”

He did that maddening thing where he chewed on his tongue and then his lip before thinking of some ridiculously witty reply. Except no reply came, and Liz took a triumphant sip of wine, raising her eyebrows at him when he snorted. She set the glass down with exaggerated care, throwing her elbow over the back of her chair and giving him her best exultant smile. 

In retrospect, later, she might realize that the glint of challenge in his eyes was a warning, but at that moment she was far too busy savoring her small victory over Raymond Reddington. When he leaned in close, she followed suit, not one to easily give up the command of the situation that she had gained. His eyes dipped down to her lips and she swallowed past a suddenly dry throat, her heartbeat spiking uncontrollably as she realized precisely how he intended to remedy the situation. 

She could feel his fingers on her chin, tilting her head to a more favorable angle, and she allowed it, giving that ages-old unspoken permission to kiss. His thumb traced a gentle, ghostly line across her jaw as his face drew so close to hers that she closed her eyes in anticipation. Surrender.

“You forget,” he said softly, in a near-whisper, the words brushing his lips with tantalizing delicacy across hers, “that jealousy is born of impatience, Lizzy. If there is one thing I have learned, it’s that the best things are always worth the wait.”

He drew back, and it took her several minutes to realize that she had been soundly bested at her own game. She opened her eyes slowly, and he handed her a refilled wine glass with a small smile. He refrained from crowing over his victory, thankfully, but there was certainly more ease about him now than previous. A little more happiness, perhaps.

Throughout the dinner–which was every bit as fantastic as promised–she noted that he kept his arm on the back of her chair, or his body tilted towards hers, his eyes not on the ravishing Melissa, but on Liz. Perhaps, she reflected, the game hadn’t been won quite yet.

And perhaps they could find a mutual sort of victory, later.


End file.
